Rain
by Keveh Kins
Summary: "Rain is a hindrance. It gets in the way of your plans. It gets in the way of living. It's just plain miserable. We wouldn't all carry umbrellas otherwise." A series of events in the life of Reno the Turk. Warnings: Alternate Universe, Non-Canon, Drug Use, Swearing, Death.
1. Chapter 1

**Rain**

**Disclaimer: **All characters and settings in this piece are based upon and are the property of Square Enix unless otherwise stated. No profit has been made from this piece of fiction.

* * *

**Chapter 1: **Benediction

The purpose of taking Tranquiliser is threefold.

Firstly, taken in adherence with the recommended doses it acts as a mild anti-anxiety drug. It never much relieves anxiety, in my own experience, it just induces that relieved sensation you get when a headache shatters under the hammering weight of five hundred heaping milligrams of aspirin. So basically, people are taking something with a bit more punch than the average painkiller, and mistake it for mental stability.

Which leads me to its second popular usage; take a stronger dose (still within medically sanctioned amounts, of course) of the stuff and it acts as a pretty good painkiller and muscle relaxant. And it's always been my experience that life as a Turk is real fucking painful, and a good, strong Tranquiliser can do more than make me think I've gotten rid of a headache. Rather, it actually can get rid of a headache.

And backaches, and shoulder aches, and knee aches, aches of all kinds, from your garden variety cramp to the searing white hot pain of your tendons shredding to pieces at the delicate touch of a hollow point bullet. Which is part of the reason why I take it so often, I've come across hollow point bullets more often than I'd like in my line of work. Once to be precise, but once is enough.

Two years on and I still have to lay a very particular way when I sleep to avoid rousing the pain gremlin that lives in my shoulder.

Unless I take Tranquiliser, which I do. Regularly.

In fact, I'm taking a few right now, unbeknownst to my bald headed compatriot. Which leads me to the third and most exciting effect of taking Tranquiliser, I call it peace-eating. I call it that partly because you have to eat to get the effect, partly because it sounds really fucking philosophical and profound. And in my experience, people in my line of work tend to believe profundity, even the fake kind. Peace-eating, though, is exactly what it says on the tin, you pop a few more of the Tranquiliser pills than is strictly recommended and about a half hour later you slip into the best damn downward spiral this side of the Crater. Pain relief and scintillating inner Nirvana coated with just a little laziness. And right now, I very sorely need it to survive Mr. Lovestruck across the table from me. I could grind the pills up, lay the dust out in a neat line on the table, and snort it in the most exaggerated, disgusting, ostentatious way and he still wouldn't notice.

He has eyes only for the brunette wading between chipboard tables and chattering patrons, never spilling a drop of the many drinks in her hand.

"I don't get your obsession with coming here." I say to him, rattling my knuckles on the tabletop and looking the place over.

Seventh Heaven is a shit-heap made out of fifty different neon signs displaying weird words, (What the fuck is a Texas?), a pinball machine and mismatched salvaged wood panelling. It all looks pretty tacky to me, and it stinks too, that delightful concoction of sweat, booze and funky pub restroom stench. I can't deny there's a homeliness to it though. It feels like everyone knows each other, at the very least they all know the goof in the body warmer behind the bar and the eye candy barmaid of my companion's dreams. It's still a shit-heap though.

"I like it here." Rude replies at last. "There's a good vibe in this place. It's nice."

He doesn't take his eyes away from the barmaid, so he doesn't catch me raising my eyebrow. I snort, and say 'sap' under my breath. He hears that alright, shooting me the dirtiest look he can muster over the rims of those cheap shades he's wearing.

"What's that?"

"Saint's alive Rude, just admit you have the hots for the chick at the bar already. You have her shifts memorised for fuck sake."

I stifle the urge to laugh as my oh so stoic partner's expression morphs from irritable to shocked. Rude's a dope sometimes, never more so than when it comes to women. Worse yet, he's a dope who thinks he's smooth and unreadable and mysterious because he wears sunglasses indoors. And no one else does that, so it makes him stand out, he says.

I don't have the heart to tell him no one does it because it actually makes people look special.

"It's a nice place." He repeats, in a way that suggests I'm to drop the topic if I know what's good for me. My ever questioning eyebrow arches up my forehead to new, more inquisitive heights. There are so many things wrong with his statement that I can feel my brain trying to coax the Tranquiliser to get the peace where the peace needs to be just so it can tolerate its many wrongs. I take a long breath before answering, unable to hide the derisive humour in my voice.

"It is not a nice place, Rude." I say, half-laughing the words 'nice place'. "It's a crappy place with a hot chick working the bar."

"It's not crappy…" He grumbles. Of course, the hot chick is conspicuously uncommented upon, by Rude at least. For at that moment some disembodied voice shouts "Hey Tifa! How 'bout a song?", and most all of the bar murmurs assent to the idea. Rude's mouth flops open at the very idea of her serenading him. She'd be serenading the bar, of course, but I could tell from the phased out look in his eye (his sunglasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose) in his head she'd only be serenading him.

"I didn't know she sang…" He whispers.

I pray now more than ever I have done for the sweet peace-eating relief to come. Dear God, do I pray. It doesn't, so my only recourse is to pull Romeo out of his reverie. Or drink. But I don't like doing that until _my_ reverie kicks in. So I wave my hand in front his face.

"Yo, Rude! Over here! It's me, Reno! I'm over here! To the very far left of the knockers you're staring at!"

He snaps his head back to face me. I snigger. He frowns.

"What were you saying?"

"This place," I say, spreading my arms wide. "It's a shithole."

The voice that replies isn't Rude's. It's barely even human, sounds more like the noise a startled Cockatrice would make.

"Hwuuaah!?"

A very drunk, startled Cockatrice. The originator of the squawk plops himself down in the one remaining seat at our table. He doesn't spill his drink, in spite of the clunky inebriation of his movements. I've come across enough drinkers in my line of work to know that this is a good way of telling if someone's an experienced alcoholic. He is. I eye him up, a little prickle of wariness in my stomach. He stares back. Beside us, Rude downs his drink in one and stands up and my little trickle of wariness is lost in a flood of indignant fury that he's abandoning me. I turn to face him and can feel the malevolence radiating from behind those dopey sunglasses, this is disproportionate vengeance for my teasing. I watch the fucker saunter off towards the bar. I know he won't be back; he's staring at the barmaid chick tinkering with a dingy keyboard set up in the corner of the room, waiting for her to start playing.

Cock-voice next to me must've grown impatient with my total non-responsiveness to his earlier squawk because he makes the same noise again, right down to the decibel. I turn back to him and he's staring at me with a big drunken basset hound frown.

"Whass wrong with Seventhhhh Heaven?" He slurs, still frowning. He looks like he might cry. I don't try to qualm the annoyance bubbling up in me. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Drilling a total stranger with questions?

"It's a shithole." I repeat, with emphasis on the 'shithole' part. I'm starting to feel a little euphoric tingle in shoulders. Nirvana isn't far away, and I thank the stars for that. Cock-voice's frown becomes even more cartoonish.

"Howzzit a shit 'ole?" He tries to sound angry. He succeeds in sounding slobbery. I shoot him a look of utter incredulity. Some questions are just downright stupid, even for drunks.

"It's literally made out of shit that no one else wanted!" I cry and flick my hand up for some emphasis, as if I'm saying the most obvious thing in the world, because quite frankly I am. His response makes my innards cringe so much I fear they'll fold in upon themselves.

"Even Heaven hasss iz rain clouds." He says, dead serious. I'm not far enough along in my pill-paved path to inner peace yet to cheerfully assent to such crappy drunken poignancy. So instead I take a good whiff of the air.

"Does Heaven smell as shitty as this too?"

He snorts, it turns into a laugh, which turns into a fit of inexplicable amusement. Nirvana won't help me here. Only the drunk understand the humour of the drunk. So I just sit and wait for him to get over my apparently fantastic joke. He continues to wheeze and chortle and recompose only to lose himself to the giggles once again. I take a sidelong glance at the bar, Rude's sitting there with another drink, watching the barmaid chick play a few keys and press some buttons on her dingy keyboard. At last Cock-voice sobers himself, at least in regards to his laughter.

"Achhh," Comes his throaty warble, "It smmmells of swea' – "

"And shit." I interrupt.

"And shit." He repeats with an enthusiastic nod. "And…and…what elsse?"

"Piss?" I offer, a lazy grin seeping onto my face as I say it. My whole body's tingling in fuzzy delight now and I feel any and all irritable sentiments towards Cock-voice fading away. He nods so vigorously at my suggestion that I swear his head's going to fly off and bounce off the walls.

"Piss!" He says. "Piss! It smellsss like piss."

"It does." I agree wholeheartedly. It really does smell like piss in here.

"But!" He roars, and his index finger points upwards so rigidly I wonder if he'll ever be able to bend it again. In fact, I'm tempted to bend it for him, as he's pointing it right at my face. But finger-breaking isn't good for my Tranquiliser mellow, even if they aren't my fingers. So instead I just tap my finger against it, for reasons I cannot fathom. Cock-voice passes no remarks on it, just continues on with what he's saying.

"A h-hic-happier place ya won't find than this." He taps his finger against the table in time with the last three words and nods as if he's just said something irrefutable. I'm too far down the road of supreme happiness to argue anymore, so I just giggle at the rhyme.

"You're a poet, slick." I say. His frown returns in all its hound-like glory.

"Hoosh Slick?" He asks. I shake my head and chuckle. The barmaid chick's keying a tune over in her corner, it sounds crisp in spite of the poor state of the keyboard.

"You sssso happy 'bout?" Cock-voice slurs, he sounds distraught. "All angry a shecon' ago." Then he leans across the table, tucking his head into his shoulders. He looks like he's about to ask me to murder someone.

"Ya any Loco Weed?"

I don't answer immediately, barmaid chick starts singing and I turn my head to look at her. There's a shy little smile on her face, but she carries herself well for all the attention she's getting. She's very pretty; I can see why Rude likes her. But it's her voice that gets me, and I know it's not just the Tranquiliser making me malleable this time. Her vocals are soft and melodic, but powerful and forceful enough that they command the attention of every person in the bar. Everyone is silent, even Cock-voice holds his tongue, though I can see he wants to pester me for an answer. I ignore him. There's something familiar about the song she sings, I know it, just don't know how I know it. And it agitates me. A lot. More than it reasonably should. The song's a downer, but there's something in it, in her voice that doesn't bum me out and ruin my vibe. It just gives me that irritable feeling of not being able to place what's wrong.

_Into each life some rain must fall…_

Cock-voice is getting tetchy next to me, fidgeting in his seat and drumming his fingers on the table. I reach into my pocket, pull out a satchel of Tranquiliser, what's left of it at least and flick them across the table to him, muttering to give them a half hour or so to kick in before I turn back to the singing beauty in the corner. I can't see her fingers on the keyboard, but her hands shift so delicately I know her touches to be feather light. Her head's inclined to the right just a little, her eyes closed and a hint of a smile, or maybe a frown on her lips as she sings. And the voice!

I know I've reached my sought Nirvana but holy shit that voice is heavenly. It's wistful and happy and sad all in one.

I glance over to the bar where Rude is sat, lips parted just a bit and gaze fixed on his goddess. He looks as dopey and love struck as ever but no laugh surges from my throat. Not even a tickle or an inkling of desire to tease him and I know for a fact that there's not enough Tranquiliser in the world to mellow me enough to stop that. It's something else entirely. And it's not just happening to me. Everyone in the bar has the same cut about them. They aren't just listening to her sing anymore. They're feeling every quiver of her voice and every click of shitty plastic keyboard key and every dull hum of artificial sound coming from its speakers that feels so real.

I don't like it anymore. It's not killing my buzz, but it's changing it and everyone else's.

Hot Pianist Barmaid keeps on singing, her notes growing longer and longer, from short little hums to long mourning wails and with each harmonious howl the sadness in her voice grows and I try to sink further into the drug's fuzzy embrace and bat away the music that's trying to mould my mellow into something else.

Burn, corpse, work, small, no, problem. Words that no one's speaking but I'm hearing. I'm too hazy to make sense of them, and there's more to worry about right now, like saving my mellow high.

…_must fall, but too much has fallen in mine…_

She finishes with a melancholy little flourish on her keyboard and the bar erupts into applause. I glance at Rude and he's clapping, slow and quiet, awestruck.

Fuck him, he's too far gone to drag with me.

Without a word to Cock-Voice I stand and slink away out the door of the bar. He slurs something after me but I don't pause at the porch to hear it. I march right across the street to a place I know can take me to Nirvana.

One without words and songs I don't know I know.

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Written to "Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall" by Ella Fitzgerald and The Ink Spots

Thanks for taking the time to read this and please do post any comments and criticisms you have. All the best!

Kev.


	2. Chapter 2

****Disclaimer: ****All characters and settings in this story are based upon and are the property of Square Enix unless otherwise stated. No profit has been made from this piece of fiction.

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**Chapter 2: **Trepidation

The purpose of taking Tranquiliser is threefold.

Wednesday morning, on the other hand, has but a single goal, a lone raison d'être, and that is to make those individuals unfortunate enough to be awake during it as miserable as possible. Or, at least, to make me as miserable as possible, I may be extrapolating a bit in regards to its effects on the rest of society.

I've always hated Wednesdays; they mark that period where the excitement of the new is gone. Then they rub salt in the wound by reminding you how far off your weekend is. Not that one really gets weekends off, in this line of work. But Wednesday's force people into immense productivity, just to stifle their own despair over how long they have left in the working week. You can't relax, so you might as well work your hardest and hope time flies by a little quicker for it. But it never does. And by the time you realise this it's too late for you, Wednesday has you in it's trickster grip and horror of horrors, you start actually wanting time to go by slower because you 'just need a little more time to finish this'.

I am no exception to the phenomenon. I hunch over the file on the desk in front of me, filling line after line with information so detailed it's tedious and bordering on inefficient. But detail is what this job calls for. I glance up at the clock hanging just above the walnut door to my boss's office.

"12:03" I mutter. It's officially not Wednesday morning anymore. The realisation brings me no joy, now it's just a shitty Wednesday afternoon and that means sitting at this desk for the next five hours, filling out more shitty reports and glancing up from time to time at the shitty clock to see how long I have left, and then panicking and wanting more shitty time to write more shitty reports the closer the time draws to the day's shitty conclusion.

I sigh, flop back in my chair and dip my hand into my pocket, running my index finger along the thin plastic edge of the satchel. A little surge of a desire to pop a few here and now jerks through my veins and into my heart. I stifle it with another sigh and gander down at the stack of cardboard file folders on the desk, all emblazoned with bright red Shinra logos that don't match the dull beige, puke-like brown colour of the rest of the folder. The colour spectrum of the world gets a little monotone on Wednesdays, like someone's put a filter over everything. I turn my head to look out at the scenery through the window. The sight doesn't change my opinion.

Midgar looks amazing at night, a veritable oasis of light and sound and hues of greens and blues and pinks and reds and every other colour imaginable. But during the day, well, it looks like someone took a crap made of cement and then moulded it into the shape of a city. Midgar lives at night, but during the day it's as lifeless as the barren crags and cliffs that surround it. Frankly, it looks like a manhole cover leading to the sewers full of the collective faeces of the rest of the planet. Which it is, in some ways, actually.

I pray for the day to fly by, so that I can fly myself to my Nirvana sooner, and take solace in the knowledge that things cannot possibly become any drabber.

"Reno! My office, with the Returners report, five minutes." Tseng says as he strides past my desk and disappears through the walnut door to his office.

Oh, look at that, the day just got drabber.

I finger the satchel again; some peace-eating is all the more tempting with the prospect of conversing with Tseng, or rather, at Tseng. The guy's a hard-ass, especially towards me. Ours is a relationship that was destined to fail from the day it began. I told him he had dirt on his forehead. Turns out it wasn't dirt and was actually some ceremonial religious dot thing. Needless to say that didn't ingratiate me with him. I didn't and still don't want to be ingratiated with him though. I glower at the walnut door before turning and fishing through the file folders for the Returners report.

Tseng irks me.

He's not really the boss, not yet anyway. But he is in charge of a few Turks and their activities. And that's what irks me about him. In the entire time I've known Tseng he's never once stepped out into the field, and as far as I can tell, never did so before I knew him. All I and anybody else know is that Tseng's been being groomed for the top dog position since day one. But what does a flunky with a desk know about the job? About what it's like out in the field?

I rise out of my chair, tucking the folder under my arm and stroll between the desks up to the door, rapping twice on the dark wood, and receive a muffled summon. I step inside the office and shut the door behind me with a soft click. The lighting's pretty dim in here; the blinds are pulled over the window behind the desk. It's dark, but not so black that sight is impaired. A row of filing cabinets stand against the wall on the right, and a lone spider plant sits atop one of them. All in all, the office is pretty sparse, a bit like its occupant.

"Take a seat." Tseng says, not looking away from the computer screen and tone monotonous.

I long ago accepted that Tseng's personality is that he has none. His decorating does nothing to change that opinion. There are creatures slowly bleeding to death that are more animated and vibrant than he is.

"Please put the report in my inbox." He drones, still not looking at me.

It really wouldn't surprise me to discover that Tseng had a desk when he was still in the womb. I step forward, dropping the report into the little basket on his desk and plop down in the faux-leather office chair in front of it. A pointed silence inflates its quiet self between us, punctured only by the continued clacking of keys under Tseng's diligent fingers. He shows no outward sign of stopping to address me anytime soon, so I slouch a little into the seat and set about inspecting the skin around my thumbnail. Said thumbnail, of course, is about as interesting as the plank sitting across from me, so I start drumming my fingers on the armrest instead.

Finally Tseng finishes typing whatever it is he's typing and turns to face me, clasping his hands together and resting them on the desk. He leans forward a bit, I maintain my slouch.

"Rude's returned from his mission." He says. His voice is level. I straighten myself in my seat and quirk an eyebrow. Rude's been gone for the better part of six months on some top secret mission. It's very shady stuff, probably something pretty nasty if he couldn't even tell me about it. Course Rude's still new at the Turk game, like me, (relatively speaking – it takes more than a few years to make a capable Turk…and a hell of a lot of paperwork) so he was paired up with one of the long timers.

"When did they get back?" I ask. "I haven't seen either of them."

Tseng just stares at me, expression totally blank. I stare right back at him, eyebrow still raised, wondering what the fuck I said to warrant gawking that's bordering on being sexual harassment at this point. Not that there's any evidence to suggest Tseng is in anyway sexual. Hell, there's probably a spare report writing pen where his dick should be.

"Rude returned." He repeats, with a pointed look. "Just Rude."

Maybe it's the monotonous way Tseng drops this bombshell, maybe I just want to save face in front of him, but the news stirs nothing in me. No heart skyrocketing to my mouth, no twisting, sickening knot in my gut, not even a tickle of irritation.

I've felt more upset by dropping food than this.

It's all the more surprising, then, that my voice is so damn hoarse when I speak.

"What happened?" I croak. I sound like my old man, without the excuse of decades of dust exposure. Still I feel nothing, contrary voice be-damned. Judging from the total non-expression upon Tseng's face, his heart isn't exactly pumping torrents of sorrow through his veins either. He takes a breath and does this little half-shrug with a shake of his head.

"We don't know yet. Rude was in no state to tell us."

"What do you mean?"

"He was…emotional. Kept demanding to go home, wouldn't hear of anything else, so we let him. We've been keeping an eye on him, to make sure he's safe but he's refusing to speak to most of us…"

I caught his drift as soon as he said the word 'most'. Rude's not speaking to the top brass, but he might speak to an equal, better yet an equal who's also a friend or a drinking buddy, at least. The order that's about to come fills me with the sort of dread you experience as a kid when you're told some relative you don't really like's coming over to visit, so you have to stay inside with them, on your best behaviour, and not do any of the fun things you wanted to do that day.

"We'd like you to go see him, after work."

If the day was drab before, it was dismal now and well on its way to being worse again.

* * *

I guide the little hatchback neatly into the slot between a pick-up and another, identical hatchback that reeked of company vehicle. Shinra launched a new car a few months back, which meant that certain departments received a fleet of them, including the Department of Administrative Research, or, us. Ostensibly as rewards for good service, but really as a form of advertising, because in the corporate world financial efficiency is king – get every last gil out of your workers, save every buck you can.

Of course in any other department the situation would be a win-win, free cars are free cars and the company wants them seen out and about, but discretion is paramount in our line of work and the sporty, sleek hatchback is anything but discreet. It's all curves and Xenon lights and flashy rims and tinted windows, it even has a tiny spoiler that curves upward from the roof, like a stylishly spiked fringe over the rear window, probably like the hairstyles of its target drivers.

I like the car, personally. In fact, I think it's the shit. Professionally though, for the sort of jobs Turks do, the car's just shit without the all important prefix of the 'the'. But what the company says goes.

I notice that I'd been fingering the satchel in my pocket for the last three minutes. There's another, stronger wave of temptation to pop a few now. I ignore it and pull my hand out of my pocket. I figure it'd be best to stay sober for this, I need to focus. So I peer out of the driver seat window at the apartment building across the street. Rude lives in a nice area, not high end, not low end, just a nice, run of the mill residential area. There's a supermarket on the corner of the street, far to the left of Rude's building. An assortment of buildings just like Rude's filled the space in between the shop and his place, but unlike Rude's apartment block, most of them are converted, filled with cafés, offices, coffee shops and just about any business that could reasonably operate within the confines of what used to be living space. In the corporate world, financial efficiency is king, and occupation is more efficient than construction.

I sigh that sort of "Well here we fucking go" type sigh before opening the door and hauling myself out of my inefficient yet efficient car. There's that heaviness in the air that often looms before a storm and a quick glance upwards confirms its coming. Midgar's sky is grey on the best of days, but the clouds are that little bit thicker and darker right now, weighted with water that would no doubt fall before the evening's end.

I turn my head so I'm looking at the other oxymoronic hatchback behind mine, the one that reeked of company car. I fix my gaze on the spot where the driver's head would be behind the tinted windshield and nod once before turning my head away and crossing the street. I scale the steps to the front door of Rude's building two at a time and there's a little prickle of self-consciousness at doing it, because I probably look like a puppy bounding up the stairs to retrieve some favourite chew toy, but fuck it, it's not my fault architects never account for longshanks like me. I fish in my pocket for the key Tseng gave me, (under rigid orders that it was to be returned, of course), pull it out and slot it into the keyhole. A twist and a distinct clunk and the door glides open on well maintained hinges.

I glance over my shoulder. The other hatchback's moving out from behind mine. I watch it roll down towards the supermarket at an even enough pace, not in a hurry but not taking its time, looking like any other driver heading home after a day's work. It rounds the corner out of sight and I nod again. The only thing less discreet than my inefficient yet efficient car is an identical one parked right next to it. I figure he was to move out to pastures new.

"Lucky bastard." I mutter before stepping over the threshold, swinging the door shut behind me.

The hallway's empty. There's a waist-high, ugly metal cupboard of some sort to my left, pressed up against the wall. It's where all the electricity meters are kept, I assume. Ugly metal cupboard is pulling two jobs though, meter and letter holder, judging by the hefty stack of mail sitting atop it. I take a quick peek, thumbing through the stack of paper. Most of it's junk mail, with a few crinkled but official looking envelopes at the bottom of the pile. One of them has Rude's apartment number on it, but not his name. Old bills for former residents I guess.

I gander around at the rest of the lobby, still clutching the envelope between the thumb and index finger of my right hand; it's the first time I've ever been in Rude's place. We see enough of each other at work, and pubs and clubs are the go to on the occasions when we feel like we haven't. The lobby matches the outside, matches the well maintained door, and matches the local shops and cafes. Not high end, not low end, just a nice, run of the mill, middle ground place. The stairs are covered with a plain navy blue carpet and framed by a sturdy looking wooden rail. There's no elevator, the place isn't big enough to warrant it I figure.

I glance back down at the envelope in my hand. My hand is shaking a little; from tiredness I tell myself as I drop the envelope and turn away from the ugly metal cupboard and stride towards the stairs. I start the ascension, one step at a time this time, though it would be more comfortable to take it two at a time. But one at a time requires more focus and precise movement and I'm staring down at my feet as I lift them and plant the ball of each foot on each step and just concentrating hard on performing the action and listening to the thump-thump-thump of each step, the only sound in the otherwise mute building.

I'm liking the sound, it's resounding and forceful and rhythmic, attention grabbing. I want to keep making it, truth be told, but I hit the third out of three floors and I run out of steps and now I've got nothing to hear but the pad of my footfalls on the carpet. Which is hardly a noise at all, certainly not loud enough to concentrate on.

There are two doors on the landing, one directly in front of me, and one to the left of that. Rude's is the one directly in front of me, a plain wooden door with a metal number seven adorning it at just above eye level.

I raise my hand to knock and all of a sudden I'm aware of just how much I'm trembling and somewhere in the back of my mind I register that my other hand has slipped back into my pocket to twiddle my little satchel of happiness.

"The fuck is up with you, Reno?" I mutter to myself, my voice as shaky as the rest of me. I stifle a laugh, because I know it'll be that nervous fucking laugh that I just can't abide in myself. I can't abide anxiety of any sort. Nothing good is gained from being anxious, you achieve nothing by worrying, only doing. And most of the time in my experience it's been unfounded anyway, and I'm a Turk.

I'm a Turk.

I'm a Turk.

I'm a fucking Turk. I can fucking handle this. It's just Rude, a little banged up, a little worse for wear, just in need of a good time to take his mind off whatever shit happened. A good time? I've fucking got that. Shooting the shit? Right up my alley. Killing some asshole would-be terrorist? A day's fucking work. Because I'm a fucking Turk and if I can do that then I sure as shit can handle this.

I bang on the door, my hand steadier now. I wait. No response.

"Rude! It's Reno, open up!" I call. Still nothing. I grimace and thump on the door again, harder this time, enough to make the hinges rattle.

"Rude! Just open the fuckin' door please!" I grumble. There's sounds of movement from beyond the door now, the noise of a body shifting, pushing itself upright and then the sound of footsteps on a wooden floor that grow louder before coming to a total stop. Then there's just the sound but not quite sound of another living being in proximity to you. And it stays that way for a moment or two and I almost feel like laughing. There's the clank of a key being turned, the squeak of the handle being pushed down and pulled and the door moves back to reveal John Rude, but not as I normally know him. And that makes my heart plummet. Rude's standing there, eyes bleary with tears, obviously fighting hard not to just collapse into a heap of grief right there on the landing.

And I can't fucking handle this. Not at all.

I swallow and speak in that shaky voice that I just cannot abide.

"I need to use your bathroom."

And with that I push past Rude and damn near sprint to the other side of his apartment.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to the folks over at for helping me out with my carpeting problem.

Don't hold back on the criticisms folks, especially of the constructive variety, t'is very much warranted and appreciated.

All the best,

Kins


	3. Chapter 3

****Disclaimer: ****All characters and settings in this story are based upon and are the property of Square Enix unless otherwise stated. No profit has been made from this piece of fiction.

* * *

**Chapter 3:** Reflection

The purpose of a mirror is threefold.

First off, it exists to make stupid faces in when you happen to glance at it as you're walking by. Or when you've had a really rough day and you're lugging about that weary melancholy that makes you pause to consider the possibility that you could just say "Fuck this" and go off to pursue your wacky dream of opening a tea shop atop a near non-traversable mountain. Or become a professional G-Bike player and spend the rest of your days shaking hands with Dio after every tournament you win and trying not to stare at his Dio-dick, ever protruding from his 'wrestling trunks'.

For reasons I have yet to fathom, nothing perks me up so much on these days as doing my best Mog the Moogle impression into a mirror, eyes crossed and expression set to maximum goof.

That's a lie. There are countless other things that perk me up just as well or even more.

But it's still fun to do. I even have a mirror above my toilet for the sole purpose of doing it while I'm taking a piss. Just for that delightful double whammy of relief.

Secondly, a mirror is used for facial analysis, which encompasses a hefty amount of activities. They range from the young teen watching their expression morph from neutrality to crestfallen horror as a tiny lump on their cheek marks the beginnings of what is soon to be a lively, sneering fucker of a zit - their starter for ten – to the groggy adult on a Sunday morning, trying to find the remainder of their face and apologise to it for everything they drunkenly put it through the night before.

Thirdly, and this is perhaps the most rarely occurring of a mirror's uses, a mirror is used to stare into your own panic filled eyes as you try to kill time until your peace-eating mellow kicks in by going on an internal diatribe about the things mirrors are used for.

This particular activity is a risky one, because you never know beforehand exactly what kind of self-reflection the reflector's going to stir up inside you. If you're lucky, it'll spark nothing and you'll just stare blankly into your not-your eyes, devoid of thought until you reach Nirvana.

If you're less fortunate, your mind will wander to woe and worry and all those inner grievances will work their way to the surface. The ones you have about yourself. Some you know to be true, some you're unsure about.

It's the latter I'm experiencing right now, standing in Rude's pristine impersonal bathroom, avoiding a less than pristine Rude who's deeply personal at present. Nirvana isn't being forthcoming. My mellow hasn't materialised in spite of my gulping down more of the delightful little Tranquiliser pills than I could count. I run my finger along the satchel, nestled in my jacket pocket.

It's empty and I can't remember how many were in it before I got here.

Not enough.

Because I'm still standing here, panicked and uncertain, staring at a reflection with darker bags under the eyes than I recall having, skin clammier than I recall feeling.

And I'm still aware.

Still aware that what I'm doing, standing here in the shitter, is trying to flush Reno down the drain because Reno's just not up for dealing with what's outside that door.

But lo and behold good ol' me has gone and clogged the proverbial toilet. So I'm doing what all decent guests do in another person's bathroom, blindly grasping for anything to kill time until the well's full enough to flush again, so to speak.

Anything to avoid thinking about the shit.

So here I stand, trying to fixate on toilet metaphors and mirrors and other mundane things because my mind is persistently trying to wander towards the shit I can't deal with.

I run my hand through my hair, frustrated. In spite of the potentially record breaking number of Tranquilisers I've taken, my mellow is taking its sweet ass time to set in.

I know why, of course. Potentially record setting anxiety attacks have a way of slowing the course of calming substances, no matter the amount. The mounting frustration probably isn't helping either, but saints alive all I want right now is to feel the gentle tingle of that ever soothing pill peace creeping up my arms and framing my vision with that wonderful blurry haze on the edges.

Mental blue balls, that's what this is.

There's an irksome twinge of guilt underneath all the unsettled churning and stabbing fear in my diaphragm. It punctuates every painful word that annoying little fucker of a voice whispers in the nether regions of my skull. I shouldn't be taking for this. I should be sober. Because the man on the other side of that bathroom door is far more immediately broken than I and with good reason, but I just can't deal with it.

A good Turk will do what it takes and this'll take one serious mellow and a hell of a lot of alcohol.

Or at least that's what I tell myself, cursing shitty Tranquiliser all the while because I'm still aware enough to know that I'm doing it.

Telling myself…and trying my damndest to believe it.

* * *

I glance over at the window. Again.

A light rain has graced the musty streets of Midgar with its presence. The window panes are flecked with little droplets of water. I've been periodically picking a couple of the little fuckers and watching as gravity did its work and brought them streaking down to the window sill.

So far I'm two to three in picking which drop wins the race.

"About to be two to four." I mutter as I watch the drop on the right merge with another little ball of water and plummet downwards, passing my little lefty guy out.

"Merging with another drop, the raindrop racing equivalent of performance enhancing drugs." I say, glancing over the armrest to the man lying on the couch behind me. I'm laying with my legs thrown over one side of the armchair, my head resting against the other. Rude's on the sofa perpendicular to the chair. My back is to him, or rather the back of my head is to him.

He's staring at the window as well, flat on his front with his head turned to face it. But his mind is gone somewhere far beyond the realm of raindrop racing and there's no pulling him back, in spite of my many comments as to the appeals of the sport over the last two hours.

Two fucking hours of sitting here while cue ball behind me plunges deeper into his emotional chasm.

If it weren't for the tremendous amount of Tranquilisers coursing their way through me and imbuing me with the greatest hazy calm that I've experienced, I'd have long since washed my hands of this whole friend turned counsellor stick.

Not as if the patient's open to it anyway. Rude is markedly unresponsive to all my efforts to rouse him from his moping, not just to the thrilling spectacle that is raindrop racing.

Along with its many other impracticalities, rain is useless for alleviating grief.

But I tried other means, including but not limited to my wondrous sense of humour and the offer of three, count 'em, three rounds of drink on me.

Never let it be said I'm not a good friend. But it takes two to make a friendship and right now Rude is about as reciprocal as Tseng to whimsy.

I push myself up in my seat, pivoting so I'm resting my right elbow on the armrest closest to the couch he's comatose on and look him over, scanning up and down the lifeless living lump that is the present John Rude.

I'm not sure if it's the fuzzy light gleaming in through the window, or if he looked like it when I got here, but Rude's complexion is pale. He's the colour of something you'd accidentally grow in a Petri dish – living, sure, but unhealthy for all involved.

I drum my fingers on the armrest, trying to ignore the murmurings of my own frustration in the back of my mind. My mellow, my wonderous glorious mellow that hit me like the world's most comfortable freight train after thirty odd minutes of staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, is starting to morph.

This kind of buzz needs stimulus and I'll be damned if it's getting wasted waiting for Rude to get over his moping little stupor.

"Yo Rude, let's get out of here man." I say, trying to sound jovial, probably not getting that flustered bite out of my voice. "Fuck this laying around, you need to get to the bar, get hammered and get out of your head."

I raise my eyebrows, hoping it makes me look expectant. More likely it just makes me look stoned out of my tree, which isn't far from the truth.

I wait a moment, but the silent lump of human flesh on the couch remains so.

My expression turns to a scowl and I look away towards the window.

It's still raining, Rude's still moping and there's a familiar, discomforting prickle beginning to take root in me. I ignore the even more unsettling twinge of fear that accompanies it, clinging to the peace as best I can.

But I know I have to do something soon.

I sigh, a big, obnoxious, loud and restless signal of a sigh.

No response from the sofa of sorrow.

I pick out two droplets on the window. Again.

* * *

I check my watch.

Three hours.

I bump my head against the window, close my eyes and exhale. My tranquillity is long gone, replaced by sheer agitation and a sort of intoxicated wooziness. The edges of my vision aren't quite hazy so much as a moving mash of colours now. My mind is running like a Chocobo with a haste materia shoved up its ass.

Fuck Tseng, for putting me in this situation.

Fuck Rude for being such a fucking buzz kill.

Fuck that fucking niggling voice in my head making comparisons that don't need to be made and dragging up memories that don't need to be remembered.

And fuck waiting.

Something clicks in me at that thought and any semblance of control I had over the anger bubbling up and making knots in my chest just vanishes.

Fuck waiting, I'm doing.

I turn on my heel and stride straight over to Rude, he's lying on his back now, staring up at the ceiling. I tap him on the chest with the back of my hand, a little harder than necessary.

"Get the fuck up. We're going. Now." I say, fighting to keep my voice at an even keel.

No response.

I clip him across the face with the back of my hand.

That gets his attention. For the first time since he met me at the door he makes bleary, bloodshot eye contact with me. There's the automatic angered response to being slapped written in his expression and something else I can't discern and don't care to. I just want him up off of this fucking couch so I can get the hell out of this average apartment in this average building in this average neighbourhood and off to more than average fucking stimulus.

"I've done my time watching you mope like a fucking baby. Get the fuck up, we're going."

I reach down and grab him by the collar and pull. He comes up easier than I thought, probably not expecting it.

I plant him on his feet before he has time to catch up with what's happening but as soon as he's fully vertical his hand clenches around my wrist and wrests his collar from my grip.

That indiscernible something in his expression from before is front and centre on his face now and a heavy wave of shame feels like it's battering at the door to my being, trying to wash over me as I realise it's a look of disgust, or disappointment, or both. But my hazy rage is rooted too deep now for anything else to hold sway and nothing occurs to me other than to defend myself from it.

But I don't get the chance, Rude's already attacking again with the first words he's spoken all night.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" His voice quivers, he sounds as though he's exerting every screed of restraint in himself to keep it steady. I ignore the warning.

"I'm not the one blubbering like a fuckin' kid, Rude!"

The words reverberate off of the walls, humming back at me.

"Boo-fucking hoo, a mission went bad. Get the fuck ove-"

I don't get to finish the barb before there's a concentrated pain in my left eye and a dull throbbing in my elbow and all of a sudden I'm flat on my ass looking up at the ceiling. Rude looms above me, furious and breathing like he's just run a marathon. I make to push myself up but Rude is faster. Wrapping his arm around my neck he starts dragging me towards the door. I try to drag the heel of my boot down his calf, struggling to get free of his grip at the same time, roaring and swearing all the while.

He pays it all no heed and then I'm moving backwards faster than I can process until I crash back first into the hard stone of the wall. I wince and cry out. A furious snarl rises from the back of my throat but as soon as I open my eyes and see his own staring back at me it recedes and I'm left just standing there with my mouth agape.

There's a cold, indignant fury blazing in Rude's eyes. Along with tears.

"You think this is about the fucking mission? Gunner is dead! I got her fucking killed, Reno! I got her fucking killed!" He roars and despite myself there's an icy terrified sensation trickling down to the pit of my stomach, already unsettled as it is. His voice is cracking.

"Gunner is dead." He repeats, "Do you think I give a shit about you waiting for me to 'get over this'? Get over this? Get fucking real, Reno. How about that, huh?"

I swing for him, a wild, desperate right hand. I don't know why I do it. He moves his head, the blow finds no purchase and I feel his shoulder connect with my sternum. He slams me against the wall again, pressing his forearm into my chest, an iron grip on the collar of my jacket. My gut is deprived of all air from the impact, but I'm struggling with all the fear of the crook who knows he's caught, trying to scream at him to get off of me but he holds firm.

All that comes out is a pained sort of whimper that leaves me infuriated. The words are rocketing around inside my skull now, booming above all else.

Burn, corpse, work, no, small, kill, problem, live.

Rude sees it in my eyes. I know he does. He doesn't relent.

"I said get fucking real! Huh?! Who do you think you're fucking fooling? Mr. I'm Too Fucking Cool to Let It Get To Me? You think I don't see it? Do you?! You think I don't know why you take those tranqs?"

There's a thump and the nerves in my left shoulder let loose with wails that hurtle to my brain. Rude continues pressing his knuckles into it, right where the scar would be, right where the hollow point bullet once made its home.

"M-my shoulder…myshouldermyshoulder…" I splutter, voice raspy.

"You do, don't you?" He says in a venom laced whisper, still pressing his knuckles into the ridges of my shoulder bones. "You think I'm some fucking idiot? Huh!? You think you're so far above everyone else that they can't notice? Is that it!?"

I plant my foot against the wall behind me and try to push off, but what strength I have left is fast fading and I'm dimly aware that I'm shaking my head and breathing in rapid, shallow gulps, even though the winded sensation has gone out of my gut.

Rude doesn't even have to resist the push, there's nothing behind it.

"When was the last time this actually hurt Reno?" He asks, twisting a knuckle right into the point where the bullet entered. I stop my feeble struggling, try to meet his gaze, try to look him in the eye but something I thought wasn't there won't let me and I hate it for that. I stare instead at the rain flecked window and resist the urge to plead that he leave my peace alone.

Fragile as it is.

But he presses on.

"Gunner's dead less than two days and you have the fucking nerve to tell me to get over it? You!? You aren't even man enough to admit why you really take those pills. Are you?" He says, his voice is a low, thunderous and fury filled rumble.

I say nothing. For a moment we remain there. His fist has stopped digging into my shoulder. His grip on my collar is still iron fast. The apartment is silent but for the light patter of water on the window panes. Then, with a shove, he pushes away from me, releasing his grip. I can feel his stare, daring me to look back into his bleary, bloodshot eyes and let him see that all he's said is truth.

Another silence takes hold, unusual in its lack of pregnancy. In fact it's entirely devoid of emotional charge and that fills me with a hopeless sort of terror.

Everything in me screams to get away from it, this horrible fucking silence.

So I do.

Without a word I drop my head and turn my back away from the wall and slouch out of the door.

I can feel him watching me, can feel his gaze boring into the back of my skull. I can feel the disgust, the rage, the disappointment that it carries. But worse than that, I can feel the nothingness in it too.

I blink and somehow I'm outside of his building, staring across the street at my efficiently inefficient car as the rain collides with and latches to my skin, flattening the wild spikes of my hair to my scalp. I'm still taking in those shallow, frantic breaths. The thin flesh around my eye is starting to swell up.

I notice that my wonderful border of colours around the skirts of my vision is fading.

I turn away from the car and walk down the street. Keeping an eye out for any neon lit pharmaceutical crosses as I shuffle through the soaked streets of Midgar.

Keeping an eye out quite literally, as the other's swollen shut.

I start laughing.

Maybe crying.

It's all the same, I think.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well hello, long time no see. I've gotten rusty since last we conversed. Ye still look pretty spry, though.

Chapter written to "_Nights in White Satin_" by The Moody Blues. Any and all feedback is much appreciated.

Take it easy folks,

Kev


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** All characters and settings in this piece are based upon and are the property of Square Enix unless otherwise stated. No profit has been made from this piece of fiction.

* * *

**Chapter 4:** Isolation

Hangovers are one of the few things in my experience that can claim to have a sole purpose.

Up there with Wednesday mornings.

Hangovers exist purely to remind you that you were a fucking moron the night before. Their methods for fulfilling their purpose are reflective of their nefariousness. The hangover is not content to just awaken the sufferer with the cacophonous screaming of body aches, or the turgid churning of a stomach lined exclusively with alcohol and chunks of the questionable special dish of Zesty Jim's Wall Market Diner.

(Incidentally, Zesty Jim's? Ridiculous. His Corel Style BBQ plate is the greatest laxative I've ever known.)

But no, hangovers are not content in just announcing their presence and intentions to inflict fitting punishment upon you for your questionable decision to continue mixing drinks and other delightful substances in the wee hours of the prior evening. First, they must loom over you as you open your eyes to bleary, disorientating consciousness. As you waken you're struck by a peculiar tingling sensation in your limbs and a snug warmth, just above room temperature, comfortable. There may be pangs and aches, but you've withstood worse.

When your brain finally starts to splutter into full function, the gears creaking and clanging as they break loose of the sticky residue formed by the wonderful combination of booze and sleep, it has just enough time to convey the message to the rest of you that it's okay.

You've weathered the storm.

In fact, the storm ain't got shit on you. You huffed, puffed, took a swig of Midgar's finest spirits and blew that fucker away before a single cloud could sully your sky.

And then Hurricane Hangover hurtles through you faster than a running Cactuar on Hyper.

The fluid surrounding your brain starts bashing to and fro against the sides of your skull – every throb booming like the bass line of a crappy rave song in a dingy nightclub. That delightful warmth from earlier turns to full on, immolating heat that makes your entire body feel like a sausage in a microwave cooking from the inside out.

Zesty Jim's fryer, indeed.

It's usually just after you come to terms with the misery that is your current status when Mr. Stomach comes along and shatters any fragile sense of comprehension you have over your sorry lot.

The stomach's the killer, the real insidious part of the hangover experience that makes it, well, insidious.

It's the one thing that really gets me. Headaches? I can deal with those. Cooking from the inside out? Nothing a few pints of water and a prolonged stay in the shower can't fix. But a hanging stomach is a real bastard. The most contrary of ailments, the cure lies in eating the fattiest, greasiest foods one can find. But the thought of evening sniffing a fry up of bacon and eggs is enough to set your innards on a one way trip up motorway mouth.

All you can do is vegetate, trying your damnedest to keep the contents of your gut at bay as you cook from the inside out and bemoan that you ever put yourself in this situation, whilst your brain fluid pumps up the bass in the tattered remains of your head.

So vegetating is what I've been doing for the past half hour, sprawled on my front in my bed, doing my utmost not to move for fear of upsetting the delicate balance keeping me from splurging my inner Reno. Hangovers aren't high on my list of enjoyable experiences to begin with, but this, this is just the pits.

I stare bleary eyed at the PHS on the night stand. It's moving, ever so slightly shifting in a semi-circular arc. It's making noise too. Wails and beeps underscored with this weird humming like a bee flying too close to your ear.

I feel like it's trying to tell me something, but whatever message it's sending is just ringing off my forehead without queuing up for processing by my frazzled mind.

Ringing.

The PHS is ringing.

Oh.

I continue staring at it. There's a faint whisper in the back of my mind compelling me to answer it. I don't. Instead I open my mouth to gurgle out the first words of the day.

"Fughrh ooorrrrf!" I croak.

It continues its irritating beeping for another ten seconds, shuffling around on the tabletop until at last it comes to a stop and the room falls silent but for the dull ringing that follows when a sound ceases and nothing rises to replace it.

I nod to myself, managing to shift my head up and down on the pillow enough for it to constitute a nod. I'm incapable of feeling anything more potent than pain and nausea, but there's a dull undercurrent of satisfaction underneath it all for my work well done.

When a Turk makes demands, those demands are met.

Hell, Turks don't even make demands, they just co-mmand.

C-motherfuckin'-O-mander Reno.

I turn my head away from the night stand and let it flop down onto the pillow, ready for another snooze.

The agony of my hangover instantly increases threefold as the entire left side of my face feels like it's been set alight. The pain cuts the queue of my mental processing entirely, and every iota of my being is screaming at me to do something.

So I jerk my head off the pillow and push myself up so I'm on all fours.

I do it without thinking, but I'm thinking now (oh hell am I thinking now) that sudden movement was a terrible strategic move on my part. Because Mr. Stomach was being maintained in a very delicate balance, which I've just fucked out the window in favour of saving face.

I know, in my heart of hearts and my stomach of stomachs that there's no preventing the outgoing train from leaving the station. But that doesn't stop me from trying as I clench every muscle in my body and grit my teeth and swallow and take sharp, harrowed breaths through my nose.

Then, with a gut grumble that's a peculiar mixture of the sound of creaking floorboards and the thump of a low pitched fart, Hurricane Hangover becomes a tsunami of digestive acid, alcohol, chalky chunks of Tranquiliser and a little bit of Jim's special, for that zesty aftertaste. It roars up through my throat and I know it can't be stopped but I still don't slacken my jaw, I just bite down harder.

The bile sluices through the gaps in my teeth, spluttering out in feeble streams until with a strangled, liquid cough I release what feels like the entirety of my innards, vital organs and all on to the mattress.

I stare at the vomit soaked sheets of my bed, taking in ragged panting breaths.

The PHS starts its whirring again.

Oh yeah, C-motherfuckin'-O-mander.

* * *

I lumber into the Shinra HQ lobby like a mangy stray dog that returns to alleys where it was once fed. I smell like a stray dog too, a tangy mixture of sweat and stale booze. I'm not sure if it's just my nose, but the stench of the morning's oral ablutions is still lingering the way tobacco's smell clings to clothes. Only this is much more putrid.

My left eye is swollen shut. I think it adds to the whole ratty dog look I've got going on. The constant dull throbbing I could live without.

I meander through the foyer, groggily weaving my way around assistants guiding gaggling tourist groups. I have an incredulous kind of fascination with their interest in the building's features. Three areas of the Shinra headquarters are open to the public – the reception lobby, the upstairs lobby with its crappy gift shop and general store and the showroom, where one can listen to such fascinating audio tapes as '_The Support Pillars: How Shinra Inc. Created a Floating Paradise_' or '_Shinra Locomotives: A Brief History_.'

Exactly how dull does your existence have to be to find joy in listening to something so banal?

"Reno, good morning!" Resounds the deep, cheerful voice of Reeve Tuesti.

If there is a Creator, they definitely like fucking with me.

I croak out an acknowledgement with a wave of my hand and keep walking towards the elevator at the back of the first floor. No stairs of any sort for me today, it's a wonder I even made it here in the first place. I hit the button and wait.

"Rough evening?"

Tuesti's voice comes unexpected to me a second time and my heart takes a frightened leap that the rest of my body tries to mimic. I keep myself grounded but can't stop the involuntary flinch and hunching of shoulders, like a drunk that's just been exposed to light after a hard day's night on the drink.

Actually, I am a drunk that's just been exposed to light after a hard day's night on the drink.

But it's the getting caught unawares that makes me jump. I'm sure I look utterly incapable of talking. At least enough most folks would give me a wide berth. But that's Reeve for ya. I glance over my shoulder to look upon my assailant and he's standing there in an immaculate navy suit, hair brushed backed from his face and lips curled into a knowing half smile.

"Something like that." I grumble out as the elevator doors slide open with a ping. I step inside and hit the button for the office floor.

"Floor 66, please." Reeve says as he strolls in after me, still smiling. I hit the button for the schmuck and rest my head against the cool steel wall of the elevator, closing my good eye.

"Nasty bruise on that eye." He says. I say nothing. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't take the hint.

"I was sorry to hear about your colleague. Gunner, wasn't it? A terrible tragedy." He says, his tone not unkind.

I like Reeve, from what I've seen of him. As executive's go, he's not the worst. Not by a long shot. But he has this particular tendency to try and be a friend to anyone he meets. Now that ain't a negative trait by any stretch of the imagination. If that's the pillar to his plate, more power to him. But the consequence of it is he talks about things he has, in my opinion, no business talking about.

There's a sudden urge in me to snap at him, ask him what the fuck Gunner was to him and why he cares. I stifle it and just nod, not opening my unblackened eye.

"Wasn't the first. Won't be the last." I say. It sounds cold but detached pragmatism seems to be the response people who know what Turks do expect from Turks when death gets brought up.

"I suppose that's true…" Reeve responds and closed eyes or no I can feel the sympathetic look he's giving me, "Still, it's a terrible thing to lose a friend. I'm sure your comrades are mourning too, in their own way."

My stomach lurches.

That's what he thinks this is, this battered state I'm in? He thinks I spent all last night drinking to Gunner's memory, or some shit like that? That I'm trying to cope with the loss of a dear friend?

I open my eyes and stare down at the grated floor. Aside from when Tseng broke the news, I haven't really thought about Gunner at all. I think I should feel guilty or angry or upset or some form of grief. No feelings of the sort arise.

"…Reno?...Reno?" I jerk my head up and Tuesti's peering at me with concern plastered all over his face now. The elevator door slides open with another ping. Reeve looks like he's about to say something but with a mumbled word of farewell I slip past him and down the hallway towards the office.

There's a prickle of anxiety bubbling up in me and I fucking hate Reeve for putting it there. This is the sort of shit he does, getting all chummy about things he doesn't understand.

_Fuck him_, I think, trying to ignore the niggling whisper in my head telling me that Reeve isn't the reason it's there.

I swipe my keycard at the office door and it opens with a click. Inside, the desks are empty but for Judy, seated at the first desk on the right. It's just been me and good ol' dutiful Judy in here the past few months.

She doesn't acknowledge my entrance as I quietly shuffle past her towards the walnut door on the opposite end of the room.

The clock above it reads 11:03am. I'm two and half hours late.

I pass by Rude's desk. His monitor is on, displaying a prompt for his username and password.

_So he's come in today._

I quell the trepidation the thought brings. There's enough throwing off my stomach as it is. So I focus instead as I prepare to knock on the walnut door, stinking of booze and sweat and with one working eye to my name, on my imminent meeting with Tseng.

* * *

At least he's so wooden there's no risk of him getting properly pissed at me.

Heck, he's probably the type that enjoys listening to 'Shinra Locomotives: A Brief History'.

I expected Tseng to be angry. At least, as angry as an emotionless automaton of a human being can be.

I expected a lecture, some sort of reprimand and to be sent on my merry way with a mountain of fresh paperwork as my punishment.

I expected Tseng to approach the whole situation with that detached sternness schtick he pulls when he's playing leader.

I got the detachment.

In fact, Tseng seems borderline disinterested in my tardy, hangover riddled state. I've been sitting here ten minutes, staring at him from across the desk. He just keeps right on typing. Beyond a curt 'Good Morning' he hasn't so much as blinked at me.

No lecture, no reprimand, naddah!

If he's trying to make me squirm, he's not succeeding.

"Rude told me what happened." He says at last, still typing away.

There's an acute constricting sensation in my gut and for a moment I feel like Zesty Jim and all his culinary comrades are coming up for another visit. I clear my throat and try to steady myself.

"Must've been quite a blow." He says, looking away from his monitor for the first time and nodding at my swollen mess of an eye.

"I've had worse." I mutter.

"I know." He replies before turning back to his monitor. He raps his fingers across the keys a few more times and then turns to face me fully. I brace myself, sure that now Tseng's about to unleash his mighty, demure wrath upon me.

"Is this spat going to be a problem?" He asks in an even tone. His expression is neutral in the truest sense of the word.

"Uhh…" How the hell am I supposed to know if its going to be a problem? I haven't talked to the guy.

"Rude doesn't seem to think it will be." He interjects.

I stare at him with my one good eye, biting down the urge to say something smart about him asking questions he knows the answer to already. I don't know how much he knows about last night and Tseng is unreadable. Or devoid of readable characteristics.

"Then it won't be." I say, trying to sound relaxed.

The room falls silent for a moment and Tseng just continues to look at me, blank as always. I resist the urge to avert my single-eyed gaze and finally he nods.

"Good." He says before sliding his chair back to reach into his desk drawer. A few seconds letter a manila coloured folder emblazoned with the Shinra logo slides across the desk towards me.

I glance down at it, and then look back up at Tseng. I want to quirk an eyebrow but there's a good chance the pain from stretching my face any further might tip Mr. Stomach back into hurling mode.

"This is Rude's report of his last mission." Tseng says.

"What?"

"He completed it last night, after you left apparently." He replies with that half shrug head shaking gesture of his, the closest thing he has to a quirk.

"Nuts." I mutter.

"At any rate, the report corroborates your own. It seems the Returners are amassing a strike force to attack Junon. Rude and Gunner uncovered a base of operations in the nearby mountains."

I reach for the folder and flick it open, squinting with my one functioning eye to try and bring the writing into focus.

"If the intel in your report is correct, they mean to strike at the Science Division research facility on Tier 4, codenamed Pandora."

Hoo boy. That's a name no sane human being wants to come across. Pandora, to the public, is another benign Shinra laboratory conducting delightful research into the effects of proximity to mako reactors on human beings and other organisms. To be fair, Shinra are researching the effects of proximity to Mako on living organisms.

They're just doing it by putting living organisms in vats of the stuff and waiting to see what happens.

Or so they say. I don't have confirmed details of the process, but I've seen some results. What happens in Pandora stays in Pandora until it has to be discreetly disposed of.

Tseng must notice the grimace forming on my face. He nods.

"Indeed, if they were to succeed in breaching the facility, the damage could be catastrophic. So, we're sending you and Rude to Junon. You'll liaise with Del. He'll act as your commander."

_Well that's one plus._

Del's one of the senior Turks, a good hand though, more suited for a leadership position than Captain Bland sitting across from me, in my opinion. Lot of field experience and he's respected.

"When do we fly out?" I ask, trying to focus on something other than my heaving stomach.

"1800 hours." He replies. "I suggest you spend the remainder of the day preparing. Del's gathering intel for a briefing as soon as you land, you'll be hitting the ground running."

He swivels his chair around to face his monitor and keyboard again and starts punching in his passcode.

A few moments pass and I look around and back to him again.

"Is there something else?" He says.

"Uhh…is that it?"

"That's it." He says with an air of finality.

Unsure of what else to do I push myself out of the chair, glancing from the passive expression of the man across from me to the door behind me and back again. I feel like a school kid getting away with starting a fight in the playground. There's a catch here somewhere. There's always a catch. I round the chair and start stepping towards the door, cautious, small steps, waiting to be stopped.

I reach for the handle and twist it, not pulling the door just yet. I glance back over my shoulder.

"What is it, Reno?" Tseng asks, still not looking at me.

_Oh fuck this._

"What's the deal?" I say, releasing the door handle and turning back to face him, expression as quizzical as I can muster considering half my face looks like a deformed aubergine.

"I walk in late looking like this and I get a mission? I've gotten worse for less than this."

Tseng actually pauses, full on stops mid typing and he doesn't look at me still but he's looking away from his monitor now. He blinks and when his eyes open again they're staring straight at me. His expression remains distinctly Tseng, insofar as there isn't one, but there's something in his voice as he answers me, a solemn undercurrent he's never had before.

"There's been enough punishment for one week, I think."

Reeve Tuesti isn't the only one who can implant little nuggets of expanding guilt in me, it seems. I nod, because I can't think of anything else to do and a moment passes where Tseng just stares at me and I can't look back at him, lowering my gaze to the floor.

"Go, you've got the rest of the day to prepare. And see about getting a Cure for that eye." He says, his tone restored to its usual non-descript droll. I turn and open the door, stepping back out to the near empty workspace.

Near empty but for the presence of the tall, tan man at the desk to my immediate left, just opposite mine.

I just can't catch a break today.

Rude's sitting upright, typing away at some document on his computer. He's got his sunglasses on indoors.

If it weren't for the explosion of dread and anxiety and every other feeling I can't abide in my head then I'd make some wise crack about him looking like a goof. Instead I swallow down a breath, trying to steady myself and take tentative steps towards his desk.

He stops typing and turns to face me. His shades are too dark to see his eyes, but the rest of his face betrays no emotion. I wonder if he's looking at the swollen mass that surrounds _my_ eye.

"Hey." I say. He doesn't reply, just inclines his head a fraction of an inch in silent acknowledgement.

I hate the silence. The only thing that rises to fill it is the crushing wave of emotions hurtling about inside of my head, and fuck that noise.

"Look, man…I'm sorry…abou-"

"Apology accepted." He interrupts. He sounds calm.

Another silence.

"…Cool." I reply and I resist the urge to cringe at how lame it sounds. "You uh, you ready for this mission?" I stammer out, clinging at any thread to keep the conversation rolling and sound emitting.

"Yeah." Is all he says back. His tone is more determined and it's freaking me out, how level he seems to be compared to the night before.

And how different he is too.

I nod, hoping it looks nonchalant.

"Cool, cool." I say again.

Conversation with Rude isn't supposed to be forced, or awkward. It's supposed to be easy, relaxed. It's supposed to have him being a goof and me winding him up about it. It's supposed to have him shut down some ridiculous claim I make with a deadpan one liner.

It's not supposed to be this…whatever this is.

"I'll see you later." I murmur, tapping the edge of his desk in some kind of parting gesture.

"Yeah." He murmurs again, turning back to his computer monitor.

I glance back over my shoulder as I walk out of the office. I look at Rude and it registers with me fully now. Goofy John Rude who tries to look cool by wearing sunglasses in doors isn't quite the same Goofy John Rude anymore.

There's something distant about him.

I step into the elevator again as that thought sinks in.

It's too much.

The doors close and that tidal wave of anxiety and grief and everything else that I've been holding at bay bursts through my battered dam and I'm slumped against the wall, gulping down ragged breaths and pleading to whatever's listening (maybe nothing) that no one steps into the elevator and sees me like this.

"_You're on your own now,"_ taunts the little niggling voice that whispers words I don't want to hear. "_When this ship goes down, it'll be on you_."

With a shaky hand I hit the button for the second floor lobby.

A minute passes and I try my utmost to steady myself, just enough to get me through the next ten minutes.

The door pings open and I march straight to the crappy general store.

I don't speak to the shopkeeper, I ignore all the sideways glances at my eye.

I just buy every fucking packet of Tranquiliser they'll sell me.

If I'm going to sink alone, I'll sink in fucking peace.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hey look at that, a reasonable amount of time between chapter updates. Written to "The Collision" by Darangen for _The Voices of The Lifestream_.

As always, feedback, criticisms and outright flames welcome.

Cheers,

Kev.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** All characters and settings in this piece are based upon and are the property of Square Enix unless otherwise stated. No profit has been made from this piece of fiction.

* * *

**Chapter 5: **Inconsideration

"The purpose of sunshine is threefold." I say, gesturing up at the sky with the steel rod in my hand like an old curmudgeonly teacher pontificating to a class full of disinterested teenagers. My eyes are squinted from the sharp evening glare.

"First and foremost, its purpose is to shed light upon the world. Light's the life giver. Without it, the world comes to a standstill. I mean, who wants to run around trying to accomplish stuff in the dark?"

The scruffy haired kid walking beside me says nothing, just raises an arm up to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"It'd be like, 'I just invented this thing called a car' and everyone else would say 'Oh hey, that's great Dave except we can't fuckin' see it!' right?"

The younger Turk looks at me like a kid at a family gathering, listening to that one uncle he didn't know he had rave about some topic he actually has no understanding of.

"I guess?" He says.

I frown.

"Fuckin' fact kid. Light is the head honcho when it comes to natural resources. Everything else depends on that big fireball to keep burning."

I catch sight of rock jutting out from the narrow pathway, barely visible amidst the rays of sunlight beaming onto the mountainside. I side-step it, cutting in front of my hiking buddy and forcing him to pause a step before continuing on. Little rookie raises no complaint. I look over my shoulder at him, still trekking forward.

"You want proof of how valuable light is? Midgar's fuckin' monetised it. 'Live on the plate, underneath the sun and sky'" I say in a sarcastic tone, spreading my hands wide like a salesman delivering a pitch. "Just sign yourself over to living in a house of cards where one single misstep could leave you bankrupt trying to pay for the fuckin' thing for the rest of your days."

I shake my head, looking back at him for a response. His brow is furrowed. He's thinking of a reply.

Or the sun's blinding him, one of the two. I turn back.

We clamber on silently for a few moments, making our slow ascent up yet another mountain, following a lead that went cold eight weeks ago. Beats sitting around filing paperwork, I figure, but I'd pay good money for a few chilled beers right now.

At least I've got my peace-eating buzz going.

The rookie breaks the silence, stepping up beside me again as the ground widens out.

"So what's number two?" He asks.

"Huh?"

"You said sunshine was threefold, what's the next part?"

"Oh right, right. Yeah, the purpose of sunshine is threefold, man. Purpose number two is the fun one. Sunshine's for kicking back with a few cold ones on a nice beach, getting your tan on. Heck, just doing anything outdoors. Sunshine cheers everybody right the fuck up, y'know?"

He nods his assent.

"That's true."

"Yup, doesn't matter what you're doing, surfing, walking, eating, getting busy in an alley while a buncha drunks are watching ya, it's always more fun in the sun."

He does a double take at that, the incredulous smile on his lips at odds with the furrowed brow and still squinty eyes.

"That was specific."

I say nothing, just shoot him a grin and pop my eyebrows a few times. He shakes his head, the amused smile lingering a while before his face returns to its usual wide-eyed and unassuming expression. He has the look of a student about him, a bit wiser than the average teenager, but still with that ignorant arrogance of one between boyhood and manhood.

We come to the end of the ridge and I glance about, looking for another route. I hold my hand up to my brow, trying and failing to lessen the glare of the sun. It's midway through its slow descent, gradually shifting from the usual orange haze of the Junon afternoon light to a deep red fireball looming over the plains below the mountains.

It looks pretty nice, in an apocalyptic kind of way. Still a pain in the ass.

"Third purpose of sunlight, rookie, is what it's doing to us right now." I say, peering out at the horizon. "Being an annoying, warm, glary bastard that spends its evening staying just low enough to fucking blind ya."

The scruffy haired kid doesn't reply. He's looking out at that fiery sky, awestruck.

I huff a humourless laugh, lips pulling into a one-sided, dismal smile.

A beat passes in which we watch the sun make its relaxed retreat.

The sky is smeared with red hues, bright red clouds underwritten with heavy shadows. For a few moments, the world looks as though it's aflame, that the very sky itself is engulfed in fire, beautiful and ominous in equal measure. And horrific.

_Burn, fall, work, corpse, must, life, fear, no._

I feel that sickening pull in my chest that's become all too familiar to me, the one that seems as though jagged steel is twisting around inside me, dragging its points haphazardly against my lungs, against my heart. I drop my hand from my brow and into the pocket of my jacket. I turn away from the not-burning world and pop two more little pills out of the satchel. I guide them into my palm and extract my hand from my pocket, bringing it to my mouth and slipping the little nuggets of peace in and down with one fluid movement.

I reckon I pass it off as a yawn, rookie doesn't seem to notice.

"What were they?" He asks.

I look over at him and he's staring back at me, one side of his face waxen and unclear in the light of the setting sun, the other side as dark as the underside of the red stained clouds. His gaze drops from my face, to my pocket and back again.

"What where what?" I say, trying to sound casual. I don't need to see the kid's face in full to know he's not having that.

"You just took two pills." He says. His tone is teetering between matter of fact and the polite trepidation of one speaking to a superior.

"Oh." I force a laugh and then force myself not to cringe at how forced it sounds. "Yeah, pain pills, Tranqs. Fucked up my shoulder pretty bad a year back." I say, patting the painless shoulder twice with my fingers, letting two of them linger for a moment over the point where the scar should be. "Still gives me grief." I laugh again, not looking at him. The laugh dies out, feeble and unfilled.

It seems like my stomach's playing ping pong in my gut, bouncing off every internal wall as it flips and flops and clenches and heaves as sudden blind panic takes hold.

I want to cry. For no reason I can comprehend. But I don't. I just quietly plead to whoever listens that rookie doesn't press the issue.

_Slipping_, comes the little niggling voice, _you're slipping. Sinking. _

"Are you okay?"

I jerk my head up and I realise that I've been standing in place for a minute, face contorted in distress, gritting my teeth and trying to keep myself tethered to the mellow buzz that seemed so strong only moments before. Now it seemed distant and indistinct, a frail, barely living creature, battered by a sudden storm.

"Yeah, yeah, just had a bad one." I say, inclining my head sideways to my shoulder. I roll it back and feign discomfort.

Rookie isn't buying it, not totally at least. He looks like he wants to say more.

I don't let him. I catch sight of cracks in the rock beyond him and stride past him.

Wordless, I start to clamber up, digging the toes of my boots into the stone as much as their width will allow, focusing on the feeling of the rock's natural grooves and points digging into the palms of my hands. I hoist myself up onto another ledge with a grunt and turn to look down, breathing heavier than I should be.

The rookie's looking up at me, arms crossed.

"Come on kid." I call down to him, huffing out a breath before continuing. "Gonna get dark soon."

I turn away, clapping my hands together, brushing off the dirt and debris and set about finding somewhere we can hunker down for the night.

There's a comforting tingle down my arms, trickling down into my fingertips.

It'll be a peaceful night, at least.

I might even sleep.

* * *

In the end, I don't sleep.

At least I don't think I sleep.

As the Tranquiliser settles itself in for the night I fall into that beautiful Nirvana between.

A wonderful ethereal nothing takes hold and I slip into contentment far greater than anything sleep could ever provide. I stay that way for a few hours. Rookie has passed out, sitting with his back to a rock. I lay flat on my back, staring up at the little beacons of light flecked across the navy sky, so unlike the great grey tarpaulin that smothers Midgar by day, or the luminescent, sickly green tendrils that hover over it by night.

Somewhere underneath the haze of the mellow I register that I should be keeping watch.

It's a perfunctory thought. Nothing attached to it.

So I just keep staring up the sky, wanting to lose myself to it. What a way to be, I think.

I lay there, I don't know for how long. I lay there until at last the mellow starts to fade and the thoughts start to return. Not the perfunctory ones, the other ones. The ones that matter too much and provide so little.

I hate them. Those thoughts are loaded, heavy. They're thoughts that are attached, to people, to histories, to me.

Water judders down the sides of my face, raindrops, I think.

"Fucking rain." I whisper. Or at least I try to whisper. It comes out more of a hoarse, cracked croak. There's a low, heaving airy sound surrounding me. Must be the rain, clattering off the jagged rocks and drumming out its eerie cleansing tune.

Fuck it.

"Fuck it. Just fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it…" I choke out as my stomach plays ping pong in my gut and the unreal jagged steel twists in my chest and words best left unheard resound throughout my skull, flitting in and out of a song I don't know I know.

I dig my fingers into the barren, bone dry grit beneath my hands.

"Please…please, please, please…just stop…just fucking stop."

* * *

On the fourteenth day we come to a split in the ragged, haphazard mountain path. On the left the trail takes on a steep decline, at least 150 feet. On the right the trail continues its gradual climb upwards. It's difficult to discern if it levels off completely from our vantage point, or if the flat at the height of the climb is just a brief reprieve before another spike upwards.

"Which way do we go?" The rookie asks.

I pause for a moment, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth and patting the metal rod off my thigh in three quick beats. I step over to the drop off next to the path on the left and peer down. The path curves around the face of the ragged mountain wall, twisting down into a clearing. The mountains surround it, forming a foreboding ring of natural towers, as if nature built its very own castle around a courtyard.

The clearing seems deserted, save for a few hardy trees, determined to infuse life into lifeless rock. A few black circles are spread around the clearing. Campfires. From my view atop the ridge they look like chocolate chips dotted across the surface of a rocky biscuit.

I snort a laugh and turn back towards the path, lowering myself to one knee. I run my fingers across the gravel. The stones on the descending path are mostly pressed flat into the grit; a few loose pebbles coat the otherwise trodden walkway.

"They've been here. Maybe an outpost." I say. The rookie offers no response but I can feel his keen gaze examining my examinations. I stand up and brush the dust off my knee, striding over to the ascending path on the right and performing the same routine.

"You think they went up?" Rookie asks.

I look up to where the ascent seems to level off.

"Hard to say. This path isn't anywhere near as worn as the other. Lots of loose rock, lot o' shale." But nowhere else to go, I think.

"Could have been trying to cover their tracks."

I shake my head. "Nah, more likely they just didn't use this path enough to leave any traces. We haven't seen anything anywhere else. Only place they could've gone is up."

I sigh the sigh of a man who knows a weary climb awaits him.

"Alright rookie, here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna take the path down, see if they left anything down in that clearing down there, supplies, shit, whatever you can find that might give us a trail. You find anything, you call me. Got it?"

The rookie nodded, a little of what looks like fear creeping into those big wide eyes. I ignore the tightening in my stomach at the sight of it and force a laugh, it comes out hollow and no smile irradiates it.

"Don't sweat it kid. I'm going to go up; there should be a pretty good view from up there so I can keep you covered. " I say, brushing my hair back from my face and grimacing as the knot in my gut tightens further and the dull rhythmic thumping in my chest gains pace. Rookie doesn't look any more assured.

"Wouldn't it make more sense for me to wait until you get in position before I go down there?" He asks. The fear has spread out from his eyes now and his entire expression is painted with worry. The ping pong in my stomach kicks off again, a rapid unsettling rally.

"Don't have time for that." I lie. "You'll be fine kid, just keep your eyes peeled and listen out for any signs of danger. Worst you're probably gonna find down there is some Capparwire though." I say, trying to sound confident and straining my lips into what I hope is a relaxed half smile. It's hard to maintain over the distressed pounding of my heart against my ribcage. It's starting to hurt now. Hurting my shoulder too, I think, fighting off the whisper in my head that says otherwise.

Rookie looks no happier about the prospect of descending into the little natural circle of hell but he turns, drawing his gun from inside his jacket and sets off at a fair pace, whether through eagerness to have it over and done with or simply through gravity forcing speed upon him I can't tell.

As soon as he hits the first turn on the pathway I reach into my pocket and pull out a full satchel of Tranquilisers. I take five, swallowing them one after the other and feeling the dry scraping of the pills against the back of my throat. They're going to cause some serious heartburn later, I think, but by that point I'll be too far gone to care.

I turn and look up to the top of the path in front of me again. I stare for a moment, silently pleading for the familiar tingle to trickle down my arms, heralding the onset of consequence from my peace-eating. Then I start my climb.

* * *

I steady myself for a moment, one foot in front of me, the other planted firmly behind me to provide some kind of base to push from as I clamber up the incline. The path, it turned out, did level off briefly before propelling upwards into another, even steeper slope.

Buzzed on Tranquilisers or not, I'd be losing my balance on this thing either way.

Nature's fucking slip n' slide. Only instead of the fun of splashing into a pool of water at the bottom you get the unadulterated joy of tearing yourself three new assholes off the gravel on the way down before you splash into a pool of your own brain fluid.

I swear as I move to take another step and my back foot slips. I'm sprawled on my front now, the toe of my left boot digging into the grit, trying to bludgeon any sort of foothold into the trail, arch of my right foot pressed flat against the ground, leg still half bent from the attempted step.

I feel like some sort of lanky, four limbed spider trying to claw its way out of a bathtub.

I pull myself upward, still on my belly, progressing in slow, deliberate movements. My left arm bends, the fingers digging into the grit and at the same time my left leg straightens as the right leg bends to over take it and plant itself just under my right elbow, itself extending upwards to worm the fingers into whatever cranny they can find.

It's machine like.

It's efficient.

And it's all I'm capable of doing right now because, slope or no slope, the fuzzy frame is setting in around my vision and standing up is just not a good idea. The Tranquilisers are hitting harder than I'm used to, this time. Seems Shinra's military grade rations aren't quite as nutritious as they claim to be.

Well, that and I did pop five of the little fuckers in one go in the heat of the midday sun atop a mountain.

I shake my head and try to focus on the movements. I make decent, if watery limbed headway and some fifteen minutes later I clear the incline, flopping face first into the dust, more winded than I should be.

The shitty rations. Definitely.

I roll over on to my back and lay there for a moment, trying to figure out if the tingling in my arms is from the pills or the climb. Either way it feels good.

I fight the urge to lull off to something that seems like sleep. It's been too long since I slept well, the prospect is enticing.

Not now, though.

"Rookie'd probably wake me up anyway." I mutter to the airy mountains. The thought of the lone trainee wandering around in the natural enclosure far below, wide eyed and unassuming and scared shitless of what he can't see is enough to stir me towards movement.

Just barely, but enough.

I loll my head so I'm looking over my right shoulder. There's a flat ridge jutting out ahead of me, the path I'm on weaves around the mountain face towards it, not unlike the curvature of the lower path.

Could get a pretty decent view of the rookie from there.

And then I notice it.

The figure – blurred amidst the haze of my mellow frame, a wash of beige and dark browns, difficult to discern from the rocky surfaces surrounding it.

Except it blinks. Not in any sort of rhythm, but in disjointed intervals.

I squint and there's enough sense left to me in the haze not to make any sudden movement.

I shift with as much caution and care as I can manage until I'm laying entirely on my right side and I allow gravity to do its work and pull me down onto my front.

I slither forward a few inches and the figure comes into focus, the blurs becoming more definite, the colours beginning to emerge out of the stony backdrop.

It's most definitely human and, it dawns on me without the surge of urgency there should have been, it's most definitely holding a rifle. The source of the blinking, I conclude, and a few moments later the scope catches a ray and emits its pulse of light.

When it comes to natural resources, light is numero uno. I grin.

There's no spotter though. That's unusual, very unusual.

I shift to the right, movements becoming bolder as it becomes apparent the sniper's scope isn't trained on me and once I'm sure I'm clear of the gunman's periphery I push up to my feet, keeping hunched.

The movement triggers a burst of colour and a jittering around the edges of my vision like the static whirring of an old TV getting thumped into tune. I shuffle down the path, trying to move quietly, too frequently sending loose stones cascading down the cliff face, but my target appears oblivious to them. As I round the path to the ridge he's perched upon I glance down, scanning for any signs of the rookie below.

My vision's too hazy to make out much of anything, so I stop trying.

I move forward onto the ridge. There's a good distance between myself and the sniper, at least thirty feet, though it's hard to tell just how far.

In my pocket a low drumming buzz kicks off followed by the shrill electronic cries of the PHS ringing. I freeze in place.

The shooter doesn't move.

The ringing stops.

I wonder, momentarily, just how deaf this fucker is.

I take a few tentative steps forward, still hunched over and still no indication from the man with the rifle that he's aware of anything other than what he's looking at through his scope.

And what he's looking at _must_ be the rookie, wandering aimlessly around the base of those natural castle towers.

I make it all the way up to the shooter before I straighten myself and pull the electro-magnetic rod from the loop in my belt. I extend it with a flick of my wrist.

At last the figure, bent on one knee and aiming down, a poor sniping stance, takes note of my presence.

A grunt that may have been an attempt to convey startling, it was to brief to really tell, escapes from beneath his balaclava cloaked lips before it's aborted by the clunk of steel across his temple and he slumps to the ground, unconscious.

His rifle clatters to the rock with a light clang of metal.

"Too fucking easy." I slur out, reaching into my pocket for the PHS.

* * *

The helicopter arrived about two hours after my call. I whiled away the time revelling in my haze and watching the colours dance across the ever shifting and refracting distortion framing my vision.

Rookie lumbered up about an hour after I put paid to the sniper. He took the rifle and dismantled it. Little fucker shot me a pretty nasty look too, whatever crawled up his ass.

I ignored it, continued ignoring him too when we boarded the chopper with our unconscious lump of cargo. So we're just sitting in silence.

I rest my head against the window of the cargo bay door.

Junon is in sight now, a mass of metal steps wedged into the side of a cliff. Or at least that's what it looks like, the doorstep of a giant. Tuesti's freshman project, Upper Junon is basically a prototype. It's a rudimentary version of Midgar, half-floating above the ground, tiered instead of flat, but each tier flat enough to adequately test the principals behind the pillars that Midgar's famous plate sits on.

In spite of all the steel and girders and concrete and the downright tacky shade of orange the setting sun casts over the city, there's a certain mechanical beauty to Junon. It's like its bigger, younger brother, Midgar - pretty unsettling scenery.

Of course, Junon's potential prettiness is undermined entirely by the massive fucking phallus of a cannon pointing out over the sea from the city's middle.

I doubt it was Reeve's idea.

Still, cock or no cock, I'm glad to see Junon again. Junon promises warm meals, a shower, booze and a plentiful supply of goods for peace-eating. I'm running out. There are only so many satchels you can fit in your jacket pockets before you start to attract undue attention.

Hell, Junon might hold some companionship too, if Rude's pulled that stick out of his ass and decided to stop giving me this "I'm still pissed at you" crap he's been playing recently. He spends most of his down time playing poker with some stooges in a bar, these days, actively ignoring me.

It's downright rude.

I laugh, slow and guttural and more of a croak than anything else.

It attracts undue attention.

Rookie looks over at me and maybe he senses my good mood. Or maybe he's gotten pissy enough about the whole descent into the mountain thing that he's drummed up enough angry pseudo-courage to kick off. He's got that look he had before, like he wants to say something but isn't sure if he should.

I ignore it, and hope sense takes hold and he keeps his mouth shut. Leave me and my mellow in peace. Then, the steady whirring of the rotors and the dull hum of the electronics is intercut with the sound of a young, peeved but cautious voice.

"Y'know, _sir…"_ He drawls out the 'sir' and it immediately sends a surge of irritation through me. It makes him sound like a whiny, petulant teenager. "There's something that's bugging me."

I say nothing. A moment passes and I shoot a quick glance towards him in begrudging acknowledgement. Rookie leans forward in his seat and he's peering at me with those big unassuming eyes. The ignorance is barely visible in them now, they're alight with the tell-tale fire of rapid mental activity – the kind that kills a buzz.

"It's just that, this all seems too…easy?"

Oh brother.

"I mean…these guys, the Returners, there supposed to be a legitimate threat right? But they only post a single sniper to try and take us out, even after everything that happened with the other two Turks?"

I grunt. "Bunch of psycho hippies kid. You're giving them too much credit."

He glances at the slumped figure of the would-be sniper in the seat across from him. He doesn't look satisfied and a pang of frustration cuts into the haze of my tranquillity.

"Wasn't even a good sniper at that." He continues. "How the hell didn't he see you coming up the pathway? Why didn't he shoot me as soon as I reached that clearing? It wasn't like I had any cover."

There's a hint of accusation in his tone there. I grimace and stifle the little prickle creeping up my stomach that I know all too well. Time to put this to bed, I think.

"Look, rookie. We just made profit on a lead that died fucking ages ago. We can worry about what the rest of his bunch of nuts are up to later, when we get information out of him. But right now, we just soak in the joy of not having to climb another fucking mountain, cool?"

He doesn't look cool at all. The intrigue in his eyes is still there, but the face is contorted in to outward annoyance now.

_Fuck_.

"I'm just saying, maybe we missed something is all…" He trails off and he's giving me a very pointed look and I could be drunk, high, deaf and blind and still pick up on the underlying statement he's making.

Maybe _you_ missed something.

A colossal wave of paranoia rips through me. Maybe I slipped enough for him to notice. It's matched only by the tide of indignant fury that follows after it. This eager little fucker is backing me into a corner and it takes every ounce of willpower I can pull from my haze not to make him pay for trying to take my mellow from me. Ignorant little runt, he has no idea, none.

My expression darkens. I'm not looking at him but he must feel the seething anger licking at the surface of my being. He falls quiet and slides back in his seat, cowed.

I take no satisfaction from it, too busy trying to quell the waging war between anger and fear inside me.

The rest of the flight to Junon is spent in silence. Probably a tense one, but I'm too preoccupied to be aware of it.

The helicopter begins its descent. I watch the ground rise up to meet it. I can see a procession making its way towards the landing pad, a black haired, bespectacled individual at the forefront – Del.

It feels like a knot comes undone in my chest as the rails of the chopper touch down on the big yellow 'H' of Junon Airport's helipad. Land at last, and freedom from enquiries and enclosed cargo bays and answers I don't want to own.

I slide open the door.

Del's little greeting party has stopped a ways off. They've been intercepted by a squadron of grunts, a squadron of grunts that aren't supposed to be there judging by the faint shouts slipping across my ears under the sound of the chopper's idling rotors. I signal to the rookie to wake up the captive, without looking at him, the rage isn't quite so faded for eye contact just yet.

Del is communicating in aggravated thrusts of his hands now. The lead grunt is shaking his head. I surmise that Del is conveying something that just isn't sinking in.

"…Not military jurisdiction…"

I hear. The grunt says something about orders.

Del asks from whom, I think. The grunt replies, some of his squad members nod their assent.

Del seems to freeze in place for a moment.

"Something isn't right." Rookie says from over my shoulder. I catch myself before I jump. I forgot about him. I bite my tongue to stop myself from snapping something at him and try to listen and focus on the congregation. They're mostly outlines and vague shapes, and not that way because of distance.

Then it happens - very quickly and without warning.

Del reaches for his pocket and pulls out his PHS and as soon as it clears the slip of his navy jacket the army grunts raise their rifles.

A beat passes.

They pull the triggers.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Written to "_The Day That Never Comes_" by Metallica.

I do hope you enjoyed readers. I rather enjoyed writing this chapter, broken space bar and all.

Any and all feedback appreciated and rewarded with my own personal thumbs up.

All the best,

Kev


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